Lost - A Tom Hiddleston One Shot
by sherekahnsgirl
Summary: What happens when Tom's lover lets her jealousy get the better of her. Erotica, Smutty Smut Smut, Dom!Tom, D/s, Forced Orgasm, Control, Non-Con/Rape, Sex, Spanking, Discipline, Angst, Feels, Jealousy


A/N:

NSFW

Mature Audiences Only

This is definitely non-con, despite the fact that she's made to enjoy it. If that bothers you, then please don't read this.

This is also definitely a much darker story and darker Tom than I usually write, so be warned.

And, before you ask, there IS NO part II planned for this (not that I'm assuming anyone will read this - I never assume anything of the sort about anything I write). The ending came to me as I was editing it - it originally had a much fluffier, rainbows and sunshine one, but it felt right so that's what I went with on the spur of the moment. So if the situation between them being left unresolved bothers you, then don't read this.

Erotica, Smutty Smut Smut, Dom!Tom, D/s, Forced Orgasm, Control, Non-Con/Rape, Sex, Spanking, Discipline, Angst, Feels, Jealousy

 _Crack!_

Because of the fact of who it was that was standing in front of me, close enough that I could feel the heat of that tall, sexy body, my hand - once it had slapped him so hard it jerked his head to the side - it then came to rest over my wide open mouth as if I couldn't believe what I had done to him.

He had already turned his head slowly back so that his narrowed eyes could come to rest on me, his hands on his hips.

I felt faint. I felt horrible. I couldn't apologize fast enough, sounding at least as stricken as I felt. "Oh, fuck me, Tom, I'm so sorry!"

What the fuck had I done? I couldn't _believe_ I had slapped my beloved Tom across the face, but the evidence was there, staring back at me accusatorily; my livid red handprint in stark relief on his beautiful white cheek.

What could I put this down to? The fact that I'd had a bit too much to drink came to mind first, but I'd been shitfaced around him before and never hauled off and popped him one. Was it stress? Hormones?

No.

It was, instead, something much less erudite, much less high brow - it was unadulterated stupidity, judging by his look, and he was right. I couldn't run away from it. I was consumed from within by my own rife insecurities, and watching him with _that_ woman tonight had made me do something I deeply, deeply regretted, even though I knew, deep down, that he would never, ever hurt me in that way.

It was a gut level response. Autonomic. Cave woman in extremis.

I had never, ever hit _anyone_ or _anything_ in my life. I've never even _thought_ of hitting anyone or anything. Hell, I barely ever even yell. That kind of display just wasn't me. It required entirely too much effort, for one.

If you pissed me off, I'd _freeze_ the shit out of you, but I wouldn't go physical on you.

But I had.

I'd full bore, flat out, flat palmed the poor bastard.

There were no words for how horrified I was at my own behavior.

My hand went out, wanting to cup his cheek comfortingly, but I was completely unprepared for what he did next.

My wrist was cuffed by the fingers of his left hand, then it was neatly twisted up behind my back, just hard enough to make it hurt slightly, to make me uncomfortably aware of just how strong _he_ was.

And how terribly weak _I_ was.

He used his hold not to propel me into the bedroom, as I half-expected, but rather over towards the snack bar in the kitchen. A big foot found the bottom rung of the bar stools, propping itself there while I stood there like a lamb being led to the slaughter, to dumbfounded at both my behavior and his, finding myself jerked hard over his knee, "oofing" slightly as that lean, hard thigh caught my tummy.

My arm was still being kept well up my back, and the fact that the other one was free didn't seem to do me one bit of good that I could see, as evidenced by the fact that when I tried to reach out to grab the edge of the counter to try to leverage myself out of that entirely undignified position, I instead found it neatly trapped with the other one at the middle of the back, rendering me just that much more helpless.

Dangling over his knee, the blood rushing to my head, my long hair falling nearly to the floor, curtaining my face, and my toes - no matter how I flexed my feet - at least a foot away from being able to touch the carpet, I was totally reliant on him and the hard arm that held my wrists captive to see that I didn't fall off that precarious perch and land on my head or my behind.

But I wasn't going _anywhere_ until he allowed it, and I didn't think that was going to happen for a while.

The next thing that registered through the humiliation I was feeling on a lot of different levels was the fact that my panties had not only been tugged out of their usual location, but they had been sent careening down my legs to take up residence on the floor. I could see them lying there, as if taunting me with what little protection they would have provided.

I was wearing a nightshirt that had already risen - by simple virtue of my position- to completely expose the bottom half of me from the waist down.

Not that I really had many hopes that I could avoid - or even lessen in any way - the punishment that was so obviously going to be delivered to me, beginning in the next few seconds, but I still couldn't seem to stop myself from opening my big mouth, of course.

"Tom - Tom, please! I'm so sorry - I lost my head. I saw you with her and I knew that the two of you had once been . . . close . . . and I just lost it. I apologize, sincerely. From the bottom of my heart. I . . . " Tears were already welling in my eyes. "I'm just so sorry."

Barely daring to, I peeped up at him.

And regretted the impulse immediately as I watched his that muscle jumping in his jaw as the hard lines of it set and I knew he was clenching his teeth together fit to break them.

"Not as sorry as you're _going_ to be, I can _promise_ you that."

It was no more than a whisper, but it struck fear into my heart in a way nothing else he'd ever said to me in our two plus year relationship ever had.

But not more so than when that hand - which was at least twice the size of mine - connected with my bare behind.

And kept connecting - swatting, slapping, spanking - with a relentless cadence that, in very short order, had me hysterically trying to avoid its descent - and despite how I wiggled and twisted and even tried to fling myself out of its path, I never managed to dodge even part of any one of the atrocious smacks that Tom rained down on me.

I couldn't get away from him. He expertly countered every move I made early on, and I suddenly discovered that I was going to have to find a way to come to grips with the fact that I was no longer in control of what was happening to me.

How I'd managed to skirt confronting that very basic tenet of our lifestyle the entire time we'd been together - which was the entire time he'd been disciplining me - I'll never know. I just always thought that, if I tried hard enough, if I wanted to badly enough, I'd just magically . . . get free, somehow.

No so much.

And I thought he had punished me thoroughly at other times.

Piece of cake.

Easy peasy.

Not that I would have said so at the time, but I certainly would have in comparison to this.

He might not have been a professional, but he was an athlete. He had incredibly stamina and he could go on for hours in the sack, which was nothing but great for me.

But here and now?

I was in some serious trouble, in more ways than one.

My attempts to escape - despite the considerable provocation - dwindled quickly - I was already tired after only a few minutes of strenuous effort.

I knew from personal experience that Mr. Been-doing-yoga-since-he-was-born, self-defense-and-martial-arts-trained, runs-seven-miles-a-day could keep doing this until he _wanted to stop_. His arm probably wouldn't even _begin_ to get tired for hours.

HOURS.

He wouldn't tucker out and the swats wouldn't get any lighter, although even if they did, they would have had the same effect. He'd distributed so many of them on my hot, swollen butt cheeks as well as down the tender, vulnerable backs of my thighs, that any touch - much less yet another well placed, hard, sharp slap - was pure agony.

When - long after I had become an ugly mass of sweating, sobbing, nose running, drooling flesh - he lifted me up, I couldn't decide which was worse - being trapped across his knee or feeling how tight and swollen my backside was as he force marched me into our bedroom.

After he literally ripped the shirt off me, he threw me onto the bed on my back, his fingers immediately cuffing my ankle, thwarting my attempts at escaping and using it to drag me back down towards where he was standing at the edge, completely ignoring my outraged cry as the ravaged flesh of my behind was dragged across what I might have said before was a relatively soft material - not so any more!

But, based on the look in his eye, I clamped my mouth shut mid-wail, knowing with a sudden sense of dread that I did _not_ want him to do whatever it was he was going to do and I certainly didn't want to add to whatever misery he had planned.

There was something a little too . . . Lokiesque . . . in that look that made me quite sure that I needed to do anything I could to call a halt.

And quickly.

Fighting him this time, however, proved to be at least as futile and considerably more humiliating, since not only was I now nude and finding that my legs were being lifted high and parted widely, but every movement I made rubbed parts of me that I'd rather forget I owned at the moment against our bedspread, taking the mickey out of me with very little extra effort on his part.

"Tom, no, please, you don't want to do this. I don't want you to!" I yelled, as if those were the magic words that were going to stop him. "No - please! Tom, _dooooonnn't_!"

My pleas fell on deaf ears, and failing that, I quickly tried to throw myself away from him, to roll onto the floor, to push him away from me - anything to save myself from what I knew would be a fate worse than - but he deflected every attempt with disheartening ease.

I watched him work the top button of his suit pants loose with one hand as he held my ankles in the other, then pull the zipper down, reaching in to tug his already full blown self out of his underwear, and I found my tongue again, dismayed at how easily I had been reduced to pleading with him. "No, Tom, please. Tom, please stop. I - I don't _want_ to!"

He leaned down and insinuated his hand beneath my neck, lifting me up as he rose to his full height, and I practically dangled from the hold he had on me.

With his nose pressed to mine, our eyes glued together, he answered me in the most menacing growl I'd ever heard from him.

"I'm. _Not_. Asking."

With that he dropped me back on the bed, following me down, a hard arm around my waist keeping me in place so that I couldn't shrink back from him, forcing me even further open and completely exposing me to him as he spread his own thighs impossibly wide and took mine with them, giving me no choice but to lie open and vulnerable beneath him as his cock lay threateningly against my groove.

His hands pinned my arms to the bed as soon as he loomed over me and planted them just above my elbows, effectively trapping them at my sides, leaving me humiliatingly helpless against him.

For the second time in less than an hour, I was forced to face the fact that he could do anything he wanted to me at any time - that I had been relying entirely too much on his gentlemanly tendencies and was learning the very hard lesson that the veneer of civilization could be - at times, such as when his love hauled off and slapped him across the face for doing nothing more than talking with an old acquaintance - very, very thin, indeed, even for a man of his caliber.

I could feel the broad head of his cock - always thick and imposing against me, but now even more so, it seemed - almost nudging its way up into me, but not quite. Instead, he simply placed it there, holding me slightly open and watching my eyes as he did so.

I'd never felt quite so threatened by a cock in my life, but this was deliberate intimidation on his part and I could see the unfamiliar glint of triumph in his eyes when he saw how truly scared I was.

"Whose are you?" he rapped out.

The question surprised and startled me, somehow.

My throat went dry.

"Y- yours."

"That's right. You're mine. Mine to do with _as I please_."

He paused, and even though it wasn't a question, I felt he expected an answer.

"Yes."

"Have I ever raised my hand to you in _any_ way - except to spank you? Have I ever taken my fists to you?"

Tears flooded my eyes yet again.

"N-no."

It was a humiliated whisper, ripped from the back of my throat.

"Would I _ever_?" came the terribly clipped but loaded question.

Having closed my eyes against the flood of tears, I opened them again and stared up him, replying with absolute conviction, "No. _Never_."

My staunch words of faith in him did nothing to soften that cold, hard look in his eyes. "And yet you thought that was something you should do to me for some imagined slight? Did you honestly think I'd snuck off with Kat while you weren't looking and fucked her in the bathroom? Perhaps out on the deck? In one of the empty rooms? That I'd dishonor you that way? That I'd dishonor you like that in any _way_ at any _time_ with any _one_?" He jerked his arms in a way that shook the big bed beneath us, and I could well imagine that he was imagining punching the mattress - or me - with his fists.

But he didn't.

"No, I - I'm sorry, Tom, so so sorry! I beg your forgiveness." I closed my eyes again, more tears running into the hair at my temples. I drew a long breath, then opened them and looked up into his, and said what was on my mind. "I'll understand completely if you can't or won't forgive me, but please, don't do this." I tried to move my arms. "Not like this. _Please_."

Nothing could have prepared me for the sudden, violent way he snapped his hips forward, sinking every bit of himself into me at once. I was _always_ wet around him, but I was also tense and afraid, and a long, low moan of pain escaped me as he continued to thrust himself into me until he could go no further and I was wholly, completely, and agonizingly full of him.

Normally he would have stopped immediately at _any_ sound like that from me, concern wreathing his face, asking what was wrong and being absolutely certain to _make it_ right for me, any way he could - even going above and beyond, withdrawing completely to simply hold me in his arms, aghast at the idea that he might have hurt me.

But this was _not_ that Tom.

"Don't what? Don't take what's mine? Don't use you like I have every right to, by your own admission?"

I tried to relax, knowing that my body would eventually come to accept him as it always had, but it was difficult when he wasn't giving me any time to come to grips with his hard, heavy invasion.

Instead, each and every thrust was designed to remind me, in no uncertain terms, just how thoroughly and completely I was owned, and it did so, in spades.

It was bad about enough to be taken like this by him - angrily, with absolutely no sign of his usual loving self.

It was absolutely _unthinkable_ that I would be made to actually _enjoy_ it.

But that was exactly what he intended, and he could do it, too, because he knew all of my buttons. Tom knew my body better than I did and even as I was gasping with each bone jarring thrust, he caught my wrists in one hand without so much as noticing that I was flailing them, trying to keep him from capturing them - which lasted all of about two seconds - stretching them up above my head, drawing me even tauter beneath him as he slowly, deliberately slid his hand between us, letting three fingers cover my clit completely, fluttering over it teasingly for long moments as he surged powerfully into me, adjusting his touch as he watched me excruciatingly closely, his eyes missing nothing as they searched for the unmistakable signs of my arousal.

And he had a humiliatingly short wait. As reluctant - downright _against_ \- this as I was mentally, my body followed where he led, slavishly devoted to the ecstasy it knew he could provide, regardless of what my mind wanted.

More and more frantic attempts to extricate myself from the untenable position in which I found myself gained me absolutely nothing as he continued to stare down at me, avidly devouring my slow, inexorable descent into a maelstrom of pleasure that I didn't couldn't even begin to get my head around, but was helpless to prevent. I couldn't get away from it; the undeniable pleasure he was creating against my will within my body. His callused fingers clung to me, stroking and rubbing and enveloping all of me in an inescapable sexual haze.

"No - God - don't - please - you _can't_! " I barely got out before he pushed me past the ability to form words - beyond the ability to do anything but lie there beneath him, writhing and moaning powerlessly as he drove me closer and closed to my ultimate and complete surrender.

"Oh, but I _can_ , and I _will_ ," he threatened ferally, lips drawn in a grim line as he continued to fuck me but bone jarringly hard, those nimble, expert fingers never letting up, never relenting, working my little bean furiously back and forth, side to side as he knew I liked, drawing plaintive whimpers and gasps from me with the alarming regularity that let him know that I was his, that he was in complete control of me.

He learned down to put his lips on my ear and I did my best to cringe away from him but there was nowhere to go.

"I'm going to finger and fuck you like this until you cum for me, until you submit yourself to me totally. I own your surrender as surely as I do your ecstasy. And I won't stop until you've given me both."

And, damn him, he was - as always - as good as his word.

He pushed me beyond my ability to deny myself, although I repeated softly the entire time, "No no no no!" with what little breath and coherence he'd left me. He was almost eerily quiet except for the involuntary grunts and groans that accompanied his efforts, saying nothing but doing everything he could to wrestle away every bit of my own will from me to bend it ruthlessly to his.

And, of course, he won, flinging me heartlessly into the sun, breaking me apart, driving me wild beneath him as he, in turn, poured himself into me with a primitive growl, holding me still for every last one of his tremendous thrusts - even as I lost my mind, keeping me in check, maintaining ruthless control over me that he didn't seem at all eager to relinquish.

He didn't allow it to end that quickly for me, and because of what a close study he'd made of me - because he had made it his goal to learn everything he could about how I responded to him, he was able to keep me there, subject to his demanding touch as he brought me to peak after phenomenal peak, not relenting in the least, driving me helplessly from crest to towering crest.

. . . until I began to cry. What was different this time from the others I would never know. I just couldn't take it any more.

But it seemed to startle him into letting my wrists go suddenly, and with my hands free finally, all I could do with them was to bring them down to cover my mouth as I sobbed.

Tom lifted himself off me but offered none of the comfort he usually would have. He didn't pull me into his arms and rock me, murmuring words of comfort and infinite, unconditional love. Instead he simply lay next to me, quiet and reserved and frighteningly unlike the man I had come to know and love.

Dragging my hands down my face, squeegeeing the tears away, I could see that he wanted to but something was holding him back.

And then he said in a strangled, stranger's tone, "I don't know how to deal with your insecurities. I don't know what else I can do to assuage them, although this was definitely not it. I'm sorry."

He sounded defeated and depressed, and Tom had _never_ sounded like that in all the time I'd known him.

Suddenly, he levered himself off the bed, adjusted himself back into his pants and didn't even bother to put his suit coat on as he strode to the door.

That beautiful head was down as he turned the doorknob, his voice dark and unfamiliar. "I . . . I have to go. I have to be by myself for a while."

As soon as he'd moved away from me, I'd opened my eyes to watch him as tears still streamed down my face.

And he hadn't even turned to look back at me.

Not even slightly, not even once.

As if the thought hadn't so much as occurred to him.

Still naked, not even thinking - as I would have at any other time - of donning a robe, I scrambled off the bed to trail after him, wanting to run to him but too unsure of my reception to do so - and not wanting my fears that he would reject me completely, deny me the succor of his embrace, to be confirmed. Ignoring the pain in my bottom and legs, and the residual aches from the violent way he had taken me, I stood there, wondering starkly if this was the last time I would see him, crying - still - unashamedly, and harder now than at any other time since this fiasco began.

My mouth opened of its own accord, words spilling over each other in my terror of losing him. "Tom, please, I know that after what I did I don't have any right to ask this, but _please_ stay. We need to talk." I knew I would grovel at his feet if that was what it took to keep him with me. My hands were out as if to touch him but I had felt compelled to stop about ten feet away from him so that I couldn't reach him, lest he kill me dead by shrinking away from my touch.

He stopped, halfway out the door, still not having looked at me.

"At least tell me you're coming back! Tom - you _have_ to tell me!" Hysteria was creeping up on me. I could feel its tendrils working their way into my heart and mind, knowing that this was just the kind of scene the both of us hated but wholly unable to stop myself.

Tom sighed, head still down as if something in the hallway fascinated him, his hand still on the knob. "I - I don't know."

The door closed behind him with a terrible finality and I fell to my knees, descending into the horrible pit of despair that had begun dragging me towards it when I'd first seen him laughing and talking with his old love hours before.

I didn't bother to try to haul myself to the bed, or even so much as get up. I simply lay there on the carpet, not caring if anyone else in the building - in the fucking _city_ \- heard my agonized wails, my heart leaking out of me and onto the floor as surely as I could feel him seeping out of me and onto my thighs.

I was alone . . . bereft of the one person who meant the most to me in this entire world.

I had and was truly, utterly _lost_.


End file.
